William’s delight was damped with the recollection of how little he deserved his acknowledgments.—A bad action interrupts the enjoyment of every satisfaction, and transforms all our pleasure into pain.—He was then obliged to give an account of the place where he had discovered it; but carefully concealed how long it had been in his possession; leaving every one to imagine he had but just picked it up. His feelings, however, on the occasion were so uncomfortable, that he retired to his own apartment to think of the occasion in solitude. Bob, in the mean time, skipping and jumping about with the lighthearted pleasure of innocence, carried his dear medal to Fanny Mopwell, desiring her to observe its beauties, and declaring he would always carefully guard it for the future. The girl looked at it some time, and then said, “she had one just like it, which a man of her uncle’s acquaintance had given her that morning;” and taking it out of a little iron box which she had bought at the fair, said, “it was too large to go in a red striped one in which she kept all the rest of her money.”
Mr. Graves begged he might see it, as those he had given his grand-children were of great age, though they had been so well preserved, and he thought were extremely scarce. So laying it down on the table while he put on his spectacles, he afterwards took it to the window, and examined it very minutely; and turning round, begged Fanny would tell him if she knew how the man had gotten it. Fanny replied, “she had heard him say, he received it the night before from a saucy boy who was going to steal a book from his stall; but that she knew nothing more about it.” The old gentleman thanked her, and went out of the room. He walked up stairs, and going into his grandson’s chamber, found him writing at his bureau.—“I do not wish to interrupt you, my dear,” said he, “but pray lend me your medal for a moment, as I want to compare it with one I have in my hand.”——Sedley’s cheeks were the colour of crimson: he was too honest to tell a falsehood; but his confusion left him not a word to say.—“I-I-I,” stammered he out, “I-I-I have not”—and burst into tears. “William!” said his grandfather gravely, “Tell me the truth.”—He could make no answer for some time but by his sobs, till the question being again repeated, he took Mr. Graves by the hand, and in an agony of grief proceeded as follows:
“Indeed Sir, I will not deceive you. I have been very much to blame; and one crime has involved me in many others; but if you can now forgive me, I think I shall never do so again. When I went to Captain Fairform’s yesterday, Harry wanted me to go with him and Tom Wilding to the fair. His father had desired him not, and I thought it wrong to go; but they laughed at me so much for my squeamishness, and would have it I was afraid only of punishment, knowing that not to be my motive; against my conscience I consented. When we got there I took hold of a plaguy pocket-book intending only to ask the price; and finding it to cost six shillings, I laid it down again, as I could not afford it. The man soon after said I had stolen it. I knew I was innocent, and denied the charge. He wanted to feel in my pockets; which I thought very insolent, and would not let him. However, among them, they would do so, and my resistance was in vain:—and to be sure there it was!—and Brestlaw must have conjured it there, for I cannot imagine how else it was done. So then, Sir, there was such a mob about me you cannot think; and I was abused and called a thief, and I do not know what; and he declared he would send me to the justice, unless I would give him a guinea: and amongst us all we could not muster one, and so at last I was forced to let him have my medal; but indeed, Sir, I did not till the very last; and I have been miserable ever since.” “The guilty, William, will ever be so,” returned Mr. Graves very seriously; “and I am sincerely sorry to rank you in that number; but tell me when you felt for it in the morning, was it in your pocket? You know it could not be, why then did you suffer me to think the contrary, and to commend you while I partly blamed your brother?” “You have taught me, Sir,” replied he, “that an honest confession is the best reparation for a fault. I wish I had done it sooner, but Harry Fairform persuaded me to keep it secret for his sake. I do not wish to lay the blame upon him to make myself appear less guilty; but his bad advice made me take my brother’s medal, which he found in the garden, and I have kept it till just now, when I could not be easy longer to detain it. And now, Sir, you know the whole;—if you can trust my promise for the future, I will never again behave so unworthy of your affection; and if you knew what I have suffered for my present fault, it might incline you to pity and forgive me.”—Here he ceased, held down his head, nor had courage to look up.—
Mr. Graves, with great kindness, took him by the hand, “Your honesty,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as you feel a conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The end of reprehension and punishment, is but to amend the offender: and if your heart is truly generous, an immediate forgiveness of your error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this instance, however, teach you that candor of disposition which you ought to exercise for others; and remember that although, as you justly observed, “every one may be good if they please,” yet that circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may be seduced or surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own conduct with peculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every charitable allowance for the faults of others. It is rashness, presumption, and folly, to condemn those actions of which we know not the cause, the temptation, or the motive. But as to the character of Harry Fairform, you may fairly conclude it to be improper for your imitation. Vice cannot be divested of guilt; and he must be extremely wicked who can laugh at a parent’s prohibition, and wilfully persuade another to do wrong. His advice this morning was founded in meanness, selfishness, and deceit; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on step by step from the commission of one bad action to another; till you have lost the calm peace which innocence only can bestow, and feel your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations of guilt. Be assured, my child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you added to your crimes a lie, I should have detected you immediately, as the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it to Fanny Mopwell, and I have it now in my hand. This W. S. I scratched on it myself in this particular place, that I might know in case either of them were lost to which it belonged; and the initials of your brother and sister you will find in theirs. Consider then the improvement that you may reap from this transaction.—However in secret any ill action may seem to be committed; yet some unthought of and unexpected circumstance may discover it. Little did you think this morning of seeing the child who is below; and still less was you apprehensive when you invited her home, that she would be the person to bring your medal to me. Let this convince you, then, that if you do wrong, you are ever liable to detection by the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open to disgrace. Security, my dear child, is the certain attendant on Virtue: an honest heart has no mean secret to conceal; and therefore, is at all times free from those uneasy cares, with which you have this morning been so much distressed: it needs no evasion, and is above the use of any. Cherish, therefore, this openness of character which is so truly amiable, by avoiding every thing which your conscience tells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases your best director. If you feel uneasy, and are conscious you are acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid of ridicule. You may suffer from its shafts for a few moments, and may find it disagreeable to be laughed at by those who are more foolish and more wicked than yourself; but in a little time this will be over, and afterwards you will enjoy the approbation of your friends, and your own heart: and this, my boy, is a noble recompence. As for doing wrong from the principle of not fearing punishment, it is the weakest argument that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid to deserve chastisement, must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto been obedient and good in return. Nor would it be to their credit to let you escape with impunity, if you should pursue a different conduct. Never, therefore, boast that you are not afraid of the rod, but that you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be persuaded to a mean action, and therefore it is an object which can cause you no terror. I know your heart is generous, but you are easily persuaded. You must fortify yourself in this particular, or you will be in great danger of error in your future life. Steadiness of principle, my dear child, is absolutely necessary to form a great and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you consented to injure, to deceive, and to distress him. Did not his unsuspecting innocence wound you, when he begged you would look for his medal, and thanked you for your trouble?—Thus it is, that wickedness of any kind, hardens the heart. However, I flatter myself, you will take warning from this instance of your misconduct, and be taught, that it is impossible to fix bounds to a bad action, or to say, I will go on so far in error, and then I will stop: when once you consent to the smallest deviation from innocence, it is not possible to determine how deeply you may be involved in guilt, or to what lengths of mischief or wickedness your first fault may conduce.”
William, with the greatest contrition, promised to be more cautious for the future; and his grandfather after sealing his forgiveness with repeated embraces, left him to recover his former composure.—His mind now in some measure relieved from the heavy burthen with which he had been oppressed, soon regained a sufficient degree of calmness to rejoin his friends; though still the consciousness of the late transactions abated his vivacity, and made him bashful and silent. His thoughts during the morning had been wholly engaged with his own concerns; but when dinner was over, he recollected that he had promised to return the shilling to Tony, which he had so generously lent him in his distress. Unwilling to renew the subject with any of his relations, he was again distressed for money; but resolving to keep his promise, he applied to his sister for two shillings, which she immediately gave him, and he set off full speed on his way to the village, to find his sooty friend. For some time before he arrived at the place, he heard the screams of an object seemingly in violent pain. As he approached, they sounded fainter and more exhausted; and when he reached the spot, they ceased entirely.—But judge of his disappointment, terror, and compassion, when he beheld the unfortunate Tony Climbwell, unbound from a tree by his inhuman master, who had been beating him with a leather strap, and had afterwards given him a blow on the head with his brush, which had stunned and deprived him of sense, in consequence of which he fell to the ground, and was left there with a kick from the same brutal wretch, and threatened,—“that if he did not soon get up, he would come and rouze him with a vengeance.”
William went to him with an intention to raise him; but found he could not stand, nor return him any answer to his enquiries. At a little distance, however, he discovered the boy who had been Tony’s companion at their first meeting; and after calling him some time in vain, went up to him, and begged to know for what crime his fellow apprentice had been so cruelly used. “I am afraid of going to help him,” said Jack,—“but Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he had yesterday for sweeping ’Squire Nicely’s chimney. He told master as how he could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the afternoon; but now he was in such a passion, that he said, “he would kill him;” and I was afraid as how he would, and I believe he has, I do not see him stir; and sure he would get up if he could, for fear of a second drubbing.” “And has my crime been the occasion of this evil too?” said William: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know where the mischief of an error may stop. My poor Tony! what shall I do to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings too which I have occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his eyes.—“Tony!” cried Sedley, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy, how do you do?”—The voice of compassion sounded so strange to him, that he looked amazed at his friend; who repeating his question, begged him to get up, and if he could, to walk forward with him a little way.
A chimney-sweeper is accustomed to ill usage; and Tony had not fallen into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of suffering.—He arose, however, with William’s assistance, and crept on till they came to a field-gate, over which he scrambled with difficulty, and then sat down under a hedge, which concealed him from observation.—Sedley with tears entreated him to forgive him for not having sooner discharged his debt, and for being the occasion of bringing him into so much trouble; “but why,” said he, “did you not come to me, and you might have been sure I would have paid you immediately.” “Ah! master,” replied Tony, “I thought you would; and so this morning I went to his honor’s at the great house, where I first saw you, and the gay coach, and the long tail nags; and so I axed for young master, for I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was a pretty fellow to axe for young master truly; but that, however young master, was not at home.” I then said you owed me a shilling, and begged him to pay it for you, and I dared to say you would return it. Upon this he bid me go about my business for an impudent knave; and giving me two or three hearty smacks with a long horse-whip he had in his hand, sent me out of the court-yard.” “How very unfortunate!” cried Sedley; “this must have happened while I was out with my grandfather; but I will now pay you immediately,” added he, giving him the two shillings he had brought. “I have no more at present; but the first money I get, you shall share it I promise you.” “I lent you but one,” said Tony, “so you have given me this too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” replied William, “I only wish that I had more to give.”—
At this instant little Jack (whose fear of his master had kept him from visiting his companion, but who had watched him into the field) came running to Tony with information that he might go home, for that his tormentor was gone to the ale-house.—The boy immediately got up, and said, “he would make the best of his way, and take the opportunity of going back; for that his mistress was the kindest creature in the world, and would be glad to see him again.”—William was determined to accompany him; and they soon reached the cottage together.—The poor woman was holding one hand over her eye, the other sustained a little infant whom she was suckling, and who looked up at her every now and then with a smile, while her tears dropped on its innocent face. A girl about two years old was standing by her knee, and crying for some victuals, and to be taken up, mammy. Another child at a broken table, was trying to reach a bit of stale crust covered with soot, that his father had tossed out of his pocket.—Such was the scene young Sedley beheld at his entrance; and which presented a striking contrast to the elegance he had been always accustomed to.—“What is the matter, mistress?” cried Tony, in an accent of compassion and concern.—At the sound of his voice, she looked up, and shewed her eye, which was swelled in such a manner she could scarcely see.—“Oh! my poor boy, how are you?” she replied, “I thought you had been killed, and by interceding in your behalf, provoked your master so much, that he gave me a blow so severe I really thought it would have ended all my troubles together.—But who is that young gentleman?” added she.—Tony briefly related the account of their late meeting, as he had before informed her of the occasion of their acquaintance, and that he had lent William the shilling, which had caused them so much trouble.
The children now became more clamorous for food; but she told them she had nothing to give them.—Tony, however, shewed the money he had received; and promised if they were good, they should have a quartern loaf. He then dispatched Jack to fetch one, whose speedy return afforded all parties great satisfaction. The eagerness with which they devoured the stale bread, occasioned Sedley the highest astonishment. They each thanked him for his kindness, when told they owed it to him; and he experienced more pleasure in having contributed to their comfort, than any amusement had hitherto afforded him: yet his delight was much damped by the recollection of the pain he had occasioned; and the bruise on poor Mrs. Blackall’s eye was an addition to all the other mischief which had attended his fault. He thought it time, however, to take his leave, and wishing them a good night and a speedy recovery, set out on his return home.—Fanny was gone when he arrived; and he was not a little disappointed that he had lost the opportunity of enjoying her company, and still more, that he had forgotten to ask for the rest of the book, which contained the account of Mr. Active and his family; or to return the part which she had lent him. The next morning he sent the servant to deliver it to her at her uncle’s, as he had promised to return it before he went back to school.
Mr. Graves having been rather indisposed the preceding evening, did not breakfast with the family; and his grandson very soon retired to his apartment in order to amuse him with his conversation.—“You are very kind, my dear boy,” said he, “to favor me with your company; but as your holidays are nearly over, I do not wish to confine you to an old man’s room, as I am sensible that more lively entertainments are better relished at your time of life.”—William assured him that his attendance was voluntary; and then informed him of his visit to the poor chimney-sweeper, and all the circumstances which had attended it.—“Unhappy Tony!” replied Mr. Graves, “his fate is a severe one! and yet, my child, it is but a few days ago, since you wished to be in his situation. Do you not now feel the folly of seeking to change your state in life at a venture, only because you are dissatisfied with some trifling circumstance which disturbs you at the present moment? I would not wish you to be insensible to the grief of parting with your friends. That heart which is destitute of affection and gratitude, is unworthy to be ranked with human beings. But do you consider, that an opportunity of pursuing your studies is a blessing which you ought to value as inestimable; and instead of repining at your fate, you should be thankful that your parents have it in their power to give you this high advantage. Never, therefore, for the future, allow yourself to judge by outward appearance; nor let any agreeable prospect either in the affluent or the indigent, incite you to wish yourself in the condition of another; since you may be assured, that state in which you are placed is the best suited to you. Higher wisdom than our’s directs every event; and it is well we are not left to determine our own situation.”—“I,” said Master Sedley, “as I am now convinced, have indeed reason to be satisfied; but sure Tony, exposed to the world without a friend, left to the savage cruelty of an inhuman master, obliged to labour for his bread, and to starve when he has earned it,—surely, Sir, he may wish to change, and not be blamable for being discontented.” “No one, my dear,” returned Mr. Graves, “can stand excused for murmuring against Providence when we know that the world is not left to the confusion of chance. We have reason to be easy under the most afflictive circumstances. Tony wished to be in your place on Monday; and had he been metamorphosed in person and situation, with the remembrance of his former state in his mind, he would probably for some time have been much happier. But supposing him to have had your ideas, he would have been, as you then stiled yourself, the most miserable creature in the world; and even wished for that very state which now excites all your compassion. The miseries of poverty are great: they call for your pity: they have a right to expect your relief. But this world is not the only hope of the good. Riches are not to be considered as your own property. They are lent you to be well bestowed. Every one is accountable for his portion, be it great or small. You have now only a few shillings, or it may be a guinea at your disposal. As you use the little you have at present, in all probability in the same manner you will bestow the possessions you will have in future. Accustom yourself, therefore, to consider you should lay by a part of your small stock to relieve the poor now, and you will find increasing pleasure in the power of being more liberal hereafter. Our vices, William, in every state will be productive of misery. No situation is necessarily unhappy. If the rich are wicked, they can have no enjoyment; and the same cause will add double distress to poverty. Tony’s master is drunken, passionate, and prodigal. He wastes his small gains at the ale-house, beats his apprentice without reason, abuses his wife, and injures his children. This causes misery to himself and to his whole family. But these evils are not to be reckoned as attendant upon poverty: they would equally destroy the felicity of the man of fortune. A bad temper spoils the relish of every enjoyment: a good one sweetens the toils of labour; nay, can mitigate sorrow, sickness, and want.—I called the day before yesterday on a poor family who live in a cottage adjoining to Tony’s master. Mr. Scrapewell, just risen from a neat but shabby bed; was placed in an old wicker chair on one side the door, to feel the refreshment of the air; while his eldest daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, appeared busy in putting the room in order; and when I entered was sweeping the sand on the floor with a little heath broom. Another girl was picking some parsley, which she put into a bason of water, or pipkin I believe they call it, for it had yellow stripes and black spots upon it, and I should not have noticed it, if I had not afterwards thrown it down by accident and broke it. Three or four other children were playing about; and the youngest, near six months old, was asleep in a cradle, which he rocked every now and then with his foot. They placed a seat for me, and I enquired how large a family he had?” “O! Sir,” replied he, “we have nine; and that is my eldest. We struggle hard; for it is a great many to maintain. My first four put us almost out of heart, as my wife had them very fast, and used to grieve, and fret, and vex herself to think where we should get bread; but I told her God would fit the back to the burden, or the burden to the back; and I tried to comfort her all I could, and used to say, Why lookee now, Beckey! when we were alone we did but live, and when we had one child we could do no more; so I trust if we have a dozen we shall do as much. But yet, Sir, I own my own heart failed me, when I thought how fast money went out, and how slow it came in, though I worked, and worked my fingers to the bone. Yet I prayed God to bless us, and hitherto, though we have been driven to many a hard pinch, thanks to his mercy, we have kept out of the workhouse; and often when I have been at my last farthing, and we have lived within an inch of starving, he has raised us up some unexpected friend, and we have jogged on again much as usual. So this has taught me never to despair; and I am determined to put the best foot forward, and hope we shall do again yet, though I have been laid up with an ague and fever these six weeks.”—As he finished this account, his wife returned from the field with her gown on her arm, her green stays left open on account of the heat, and her cap tied up over her head. She looked hot indeed; and dropping me a curtsy as she entered, affectionately enquired after her husband: then taking up the infant, kissed it, suckled it, and gave it to one of the girls to nurse, while she went back again to her labour, after eating a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese. Love, harmony, neatness, good-humour, civility, and kindness, dwell in their little cot, and yet, William, their riches are not greater than the chimney-sweeper’s. Virtue and œconomy only make the difference. While the one squanders his small gain at the ale-house, the other is laying up every farthing as a provision for his children; and his good conduct ensures him assistance and protection from all who know him. Add to this one consideration, which is more than all the rest, that the blessing of Heaven will attend the good, and keep that mind in peace which is staid on its support.